I’ve decided the most effective way to run during these unique times is on the road, avoiding both the weary looks of the 60+ and the annoying 20 something’s who are barrelling down the pavement with a real laissez-faire attitude. In my mind I look like Kelly Bensimon in season four of The Real Housewives of New York City as she darted through the streets of Morocco like an antelope, in reality I look like Simon Pegg as he reaches the 26th mile in Run Fat Boy Run. Either way I’m showing face and by the looks of it so is everyone else. Will we emerge from this lockdown like butterflies, with a new athletic prowess but definite signs of alcohol dependency?
After returning from my run I bustle about with the busyness of a woman juggling a Fortune 500 company, four kids and a 100,000 following on Instagram. I have none of those things. But somehow after taking the recycling out I found myself on my hands and knees in the hallway of my building sorting a crate full of post. None of which is for me or my housemate. As people not intent on trying to damage the earth more than we already have, we’re essentially paperless (don’t worry you can thank us after the lockdown), and organised so if we see post with our name, we pick it up. A concept which is apparently foreign to many of my neighbours. So as the busybody I am, I decide to organise the post into piles, for my neighbours to dutifully pick up and take into their abodes. As I sit knee deep in stranger’s personal and private documents I suddenly panic that this may in fact be illegal or at least frowned upon. I think the law against opening someone else’s post had by this point seeped into my consciousness, and resulted in me furiously throwing the post back into the crate and running upstairs to the safety of my flat. Fifteen minutes well spent, and no more familiar where the legalities of organising post begin and end.
With the heady heights of the hallway coming to an abrupt end, I begin chores in the flat. Grab the hoover; a tactical move due to the theatrical and athletic physicality necessary to get the job done, resulting in no disputes whether you have contributed to the housework. I bash a few surfaces, wonder if the hoover if even working after rolling over the same clump of hairs about five times, to be informed “it’s full”. I look at my housemate like she’s just spat in my face at the insinuation I would prolong this torture by faffing about trying to empty it. So like any other sane person, I press on, pick up the hairs myself and toss them in the bin. As the back aching bore continues I am quizzed on my preference of book organisation for our bookshelf, after responding with a shrug I am quickly informed that anyone organising their books by anything other than colour is "frankly a joke". So there we have it folks, if you’ve got a shoddy looking bookshelf get it in colour order, stat.